The Masque of Barona
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: There are a thousand reasons why Richard and Sophie can never be together. One of them is that he can't find her. Sophie has run away from the ball, and there's no glass slipper that can make everything better between them… but, as Richard discovers, a secret fort might work just as well. Asbel/Cheria, Hubert/Pascal, implied past Asbel/Richard. I do not own Graces or the cover art!


_I wrote this some time ago, but I wasn't happy with it, so I never published it. But realistically, I'm not going to get much happier; may as well post it and make my debut in the Graces sub-fandom of Tales, right? Who knows, I might end up writing a sort of postscript someday.  
_

* * *

Windor is well-known for its swift waltzes.

Ordinarily, they're as much a joy to watch as to dance—but tonight, King Richard has abstained from both pleasures. Though this ball is supposedly in honor of his twenty-second birthday, he knows that's really only half the reason. The other half… well, that's considerably more complicated.

His country has been clamoring for a Queen ever since Richard's coronation, and their pestering has only grown more persistent in the three years since. In fact, the court practically coerced Richard into hosting a much larger gathering than anticipated—inviting all manner of noble households without asking him, then leaving him to deal with it.

Richard knows they're taking it so seriously only because he's been dodging the issue for such a long time; ever since relative peace has come to Ephinea, he's been steadily running out of excuses.

Fortunately, he likes to think he doesn't _need_ excuses anymore, now that he has masks: Richard hastily modified the invitations to declare that the gathering would be a masquerade, much to the shock and annoyance of the court. (It was the only way the King stood a fighting chance of slipping away unnoticed at his own party, anyway.)

He smiles somewhat ruefully. Asbel and Hubert thought _they'd_ been under pressure two or three years ago, but no pushy mother nor even political alliance can possibly compare with the complexities of Richard's current predicament.

The inescapable truth of the matter is that he has to choose a Queen not only for himself, but for all of Windor. And therein lies the core problem: Richard's options, while expansive, do not include the two people for whom he has ever felt more than mere friendship or passing interest.

One of those is officially taken as of two years ago, upon his wedding day, and Richard hasn't allowed himself to think of him romantically since; what would be the point? Maintaining his childhood infatuation would lead only to heartache and regret, and it really never would have worked out even if he hadn't gotten married.

Besides, Asbel is happy where he is, with a loving wife and… daughter. Richard's breath catches automatically at the thought of Sophie: as for the other, more recent claim on his attentions, holding them with a far stronger grip than her adoptive father ever had—well, she's not a viable option for an entirely different set of reasons.

First of all, the court doesn't usually recognize adopted children as legitimate in the upper class, so Richard isn't entirely sure that Sophie will be considered of noble enough birth to wed a King. That complication alone might be easy enough to overlook; exceptions have been made, and not infrequently at that—but her social class is not the only issue.

The primary duty of a Queen is considered by the court to be the continuation of the King's lineage; thus, Richard has a duty to marry someone who can bear him descendants. And, were he allowed to marry Sophie, that may well be impossible: she was not designed to produce children. It's unlikely that she has a real reproductive system at all, let alone one that is compatible with humans.

(In the wee hours of the morning, when his inhibitions have lowered, Richard often thinks he ought to find out for himself—and inevitably curses himself for the thought, trying in vain to bury it under guilt.)

But both of those are nothing compared to the third reason.

Sophie will not grow old alongside him. At first, Richard did not fully grasp what her immortality truly meant, nor how it could affect him—even as he passed from nineteen to twenty, and from twenty to twenty-one, and she remained eternally sixteen. But half a year ago, as they sat together in placid silence and watched the sapphire sea, he realized that hundreds or thousands of years from now, she might sit in that same place with another man.

Even if Richard spends the rest of his life with Sophie, it's impossible for her to do the same with him: trying to do so anyway would bring pain to them both. And so that bright morning, darkened by the sudden awareness of his own mortality, was the day he decided he could bear it no longer—because that was also the day he discovered, once and for all, that Sophie was falling for him as surely as he had fallen for her.

It had started as an implication Cheria made almost a year ago, joking about the prospects of having Richard as her son-in-law, which was an admittedly odd thought. But after that point, he couldn't help but notice that perhaps Sophie's feelings were deeper than mere sisterly devotion after all.

She had gradually become shyer around him ever since their adventure ended; often, when they sat in silence, Richard would catch her gazing at him, and she would blush and look quickly away. He knew all too well that this was a very precarious situation, and his rational mind murmured warningly that he ought to get out before she led him innocently into temptation.

But Richard still couldn't bring himself to do it, even for his own sake, until that day when Sophie told him that her heart wouldn't slow down whenever he was there, and wondered self-consciously if there was something wrong with her.

In that moment, Richard knew that maintaining their relationship would only cause them both to suffer; he could not afford to give her false hope, nor could he stand to test his strength any longer. Losing one another would undoubtedly hurt them both, but it would be for the best in the end—a milder, less enduring pain than that of an impossible romance.

And so, in a perhaps futile effort to preserve both their hearts, Richard thenceforth abandoned his monthly visits to Lhant, under the pretext of attending to his kingly work.

Since then, Sophie has twice tried to send him mail; he could not bring himself to read their contents, but filed them away nonetheless. Once, she even visited the gates, but Richard reluctantly told his guards to inform her that he was not at home. Sophie has not tried to contact him since: Richard has forced himself to believe that her feelings have veered towards the resentful during his long absence. He _must_ think that, or he'll never maintain the strength to stay away.

Sighing heavily and shaking his head to clear it of wistful memories, Richard finally finds the strength to push the door open and reenter the ballroom.

Malik stands off to the side, sipping punch with a faint and reminiscent smile on his face as he watches the waltzers. Asbel and Cheria whirl around the floor in their traditional awkward grace; Hubert and Pascal's constant bickering and banter interweaves with the music, and Richard catches himself smiling at their usual affectionate arguments.

But he sobers almost immediately; where is Sophie? However much he's been trying to avoid her, in his heart he wants to at least _see_ her again, more than the fleeting moment of her arrival—and besides, it will likely do far more harm than good to ignore her when they're both in the same room.

But before he can continue his search, yet another hopeful noblewoman curtsies before her King with a deferent introduction, and Richard reluctantly gives her his attention. Bestowing upon the back of her hand a chaste and hasty kiss, he behaves in as gentlemanly a manner as expected, trying to suppress his detached distraction.

Chivalry has become almost reflexive for him due to his station; besides, by no means does Richard want to break his suitresses' hearts simply because he cannot give them his own. And, should he need to choose from one of them in the end after all, he'd prefer not to have limited his own options by making enemies during this delicate phase.

It takes a long time to get rid of the nervously chatty lady, whose name Richard has forgotten by the time their conversation ends; she will not be deterred by polite nodding and smiling. During a rare lull in her speech, he tells her that he's sorry, but he must find someone. Though she offers to help, he waves her off with a vague request to please enjoy the dance, and finally makes his escape.

After glancing once more about the room as the next song ends and finding himself once again unable to locate Sophie, Richard strides towards the nearest one of his acquaintances, resolving that perhaps her relatives will know.

Hubert is easily identifiable through his plain red mask, given his typical Strahtan uniform below it; as Richard approaches, he finds that his friend is breathing hard from the exertion of dancing with his simultaneously boisterous and clumsy fiancée.

"Hello, Hubert," greets Richard, silently offering his condolences with a tiny smile. "How goes the dance?" he continues, glancing over at Pascal, who is deep in conversation with a startled nobleman who is attempting to edge away from her. Part of that is undoubtedly due to the subject matter of her typical exchanges, but Richard strongly suspects that the other has to do with her costume.

She wears a threadbare black mask with frayed ribbons double-knotted in the back like some common bandit—the only one she could find, as she blithely informed Richard upon their first meeting that evening. But at least Hubert managed to squeeze her into a dress somehow; it's pale blue and looks more like a summer nightgown than an autumn ballgown, but it's apparently the only one she would wear.

"Better for Pascal than for me," sighs Hubert in response, smiling wryly as he traces Richard's gaze. "My feet ache from being trampled all evening—though of course, that's more my fault than yours."

"One would think it would be hers," points out Richard with a chuckle, meeting his eyes again. He's seen Hubert wince during every song they've danced; more than likely, her ungainliness is the source of their many tiny spats.

Hubert only shakes his head and pushes up his mask as if it were his glasses. "No; I should have taught her to waltz far earlier," he counters, and Richard notes with some amusement his defensiveness. "As it is, she's only experienced in Amarcian folk dances, and those are… interesting."

Richard nods, having no idea what 'interesting' means in such a context, and not sure he wants to find out. Meanwhile, Pascal's captive audience is suddenly freed as the next song begins: the nobleman bows hurriedly and asks the first lady he can find to dance, in a clear effort to escape.

Pascal only shrugs unconcernedly, turning towards the refreshment table. "I'm no great conversationalist," remarks Hubert, his eyes on his fiancée as she plucks a cookie from a dessert-laden platter and munches on it happily. "I trust you came here for a reason beyond simply talking?" he adds, glancing back up.

"Perceptive as ever," acknowledges Richard, inclining his head. "I usually enjoy visiting with friends, but tonight there's… something on my mind." He pauses, trying to straighten out his thoughts. "Have you seen Sophie?" he asks eventually, and Hubert's sky-blue eyes narrow slightly in thought or suspicion.

"Not for, like, _hours_ ," responds Pascal before her fiancée can respond, practically appearing out of nowhere, and Richard takes an automatic step back: Hubert yelps as she hugs his arm enthusiastically, turning almost as red as his mask as she leans her head on his shoulder.

"Heya, Richard," she adds, grinning and paying absolutely no attention to Hubert's discomfort. "What's up?"

"Just looking for Sophie, as you heard," responds Richard, unable to suppress a smile despite himself. "I haven't seen her since she came in," he adds more cautiously, aware that he'll be treading on thin ice if he says any more. Richard has neither told of nor even suggested his confused feelings for Sophie, in the hopes that refusing to mention them aloud will make them less real.

"Oh, so you're _worried_ about her," says Pascal, nodding vigorously in understanding. "Well, I'm sure she's fine," she assures him, looking up brightly into his eyes. "She survived all that stuff a few years ago, right? She can probably survive a dance, too." She pauses thoughtfully, glancing up at the ceiling as if calculating some complex equation that might bring it crashing down. "Mmmaybe."

Hubert rolls his eyes. "Sophie has been to balls at Barona Castle before," he points out impatiently, frowning at his unconcerned fiancée. "You of all people should know she's attended King Richard's past two birthday celebrations; you chased her through every hallway both times." He pauses, raising a hand to his chin contemplatively. "Though it's true that neither of those parties was quite as widely attended as this one."

Richard nods. That's what worries him; his court ensured that all the nobles of Windor, lesser and greater, would gather in this castle tonight—and that means that he's no longer exclusively among friends. He barely knows several of the people here, and Richard is certain that not all of them are as virtuous as their rank implies…

"I'd ask Asbel if I were you," suggests Hubert, and Richard notes the concern on his face as he evaluates his expression. "You know how he is; he hardly ever lets Sophie out of his sight." He sighs; Pascal stares over at the dance floor with renewed interest. "Honestly, sometimes I think he practically _suffocates_ the poor girl," continues Hubert, shaking his head. "It's a wonder she's put up with it for this long…"

"That's our Sophie for ya," smiles Pascal. "She's happiest when people let her know they care. Even if that means feeling a little squished sometimes." Her eyes widen before Richard can think too hard on the (unintentional?) wisdom of her words. "Squished!" she exclaims, pounding her fist into her hand. "I almost forgot—I haven't touched her yet tonight!"

Hubert gives a sound that's like a cross between a groan and a growl, and Richard almost laughs at the perfect absurdity of the noise. "Honestly, can't you let well enough alone?" he asks, shaking his head. "We probably can't find her because she fled at the prospects of seeing _you_ again!"

Pascal ducks her head with a disappointed mew, like a scolded cat; Hubert's expression softens slightly before he catches himself, flushing, and scowls. Richard, meanwhile, clears his throat, drawing the couple's attention momentarily away from one another. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, you two," he says, smiling knowingly. "And go easy on one another. That's an _order_ ," he adds with mock sternness.

"We'll… try, Your Majesty," promises Hubert, his brief bow as stiff as his words, and Pascal mimics her fiancée's motion rather than curtsying. Hubert looks stricken at her faux pas, but Richard is more amused than anything; her inadvertent lack of adherence to time-honored traditions is a breath of fresh air in an admittedly stale court.

"Good luck, Your Kingliness!" cheers Pascal, winking at Richard with a sort-of-salute, and he raises his hand in an awkward farewell as she drags Hubert back onto the dance floor despite his red-faced protests.

He doesn't have to look far to find Asbel and Cheria, taking stately steps to the side—perfectly suited to one another. Each wears a delicate filigree mask, gleaming in the light; Cheria's is pale gold, Asbel's silver. Cheria's hair, now let fully down and hanging halfway down her back, swishes along with her pale pink gown as her husband twirls her up the stairs.

Inevitably, she stumbles and pitches forward, but of course is brought safely into her husband's arms again. "Asbel!" she exclaims, trying to sound reproachful, but cannot stop her excited laughter. Asbel only grins at her before his eyes slide to Richard, who takes that as his cue to approach.

"Hey, Richard," smiles Asbel, clapping him on the shoulder and almost startling him. "Happy birthday! Er, again," he amends hastily, evidently remembering that he already wished him one at the entrance. "How's your evening going so far, Your Majesty?"

"Fine," replies Richard, and it's not _entirely_ a lie. "However, I was wondering," he adds, before Asbel can continue the usual pleasantries, "where your daughter has run off to. I've been looking for her every spare moment I have"—not many, given his unfortunate social obligations—"but I haven't been able to find her."

Cheria blinks as if startled. "Sophie has been talking so much about seeing you again, I thought for sure she'd find you and never leave your side," she confesses, frowning; Richard is somewhat grateful that he doesn't have time to dwell on the implications of her words. "But… you haven't seen her at _all_?"

"Not since you arrived," admits Richard. He hadn't had a chance to do more than greet the Lhant family—rather more formally than he would have liked—before his attention was essentially demanded by another of his myriad marriage candidates, and he'd lost track of Sophie by the time their brief conversation ended.

Asbel purses his lips, his two-toned eyes troubled. "The last time we saw Sophie was when she was talking to the Captain, but that was a couple hours ago." He shakes his head, glowering. "This is what I get for letting her go off on her own!"

"Asbel," sighs Cheria, resting a reassuring hand on his arm—though she too looks worried. "I'm sure Sophie is all right. Remember, she's not a child anymore." She gives him a small smile, but it vanishes almost immediately at her husband's response, to be replaced by deeper concern.

"She doesn't _look_ like a child," corrects Asbel, bringing his hand up to the left side of his face in his by now traditional gesture of contemplation. "But she's only lived in the world for a few years." He closes his eyes, and Cheria bows her head anxiously. "I swore to protect her, not let her go missing," mutters Asbel, clenching his gloved fists. "What kind of a father am I?"

Richard opens his mouth to inform him that there's no time for self-loathing while Sophie might be in danger, but has no time to say anything: Malik walks over from his self-assigned station by the punch bowl. "I think there might be a few people across the room who _can't_ see your distress, Asbel," he remarks, crossing his arms. His words seem in jest, but his voice is deadly serious. "What's happening?"

"We can't find Sophie," says Cheria, getting right to the point, and Malik narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "You were probably the last of us to see her," she adds desperately, fidgeting slightly as though unable to stand still any longer. "Do you know where she went?"

Malik rubs his meticulously groomed beard. "Not exactly," he says, but there's a hesitation in his voice. "Sophie did say something a while ago about going somewhere secret." He pauses. "She assured me that it wasn't far, but—she wouldn't tell me where it was, exactly."

"Why didn't you _tell_ us?!" explodes Asbel, taking a step forward; Cheria murmurs something soothing to him, but her eyes remain trained on Malik, awaiting an answer.

The Captain only raises his eyebrows. "I would have, but she told me in the strictest confidence." Malik turns toward Richard somewhat slowly and looks him up and down. "Sophie _did_ say His Majesty would know," he adds, tapping his fingers: Richard realizes suddenly that all three pairs of eyes are now fixed upon him in somewhat suspicious expectation.

"Somewhere… secret," he mutters to himself, running a hand through his hair, but almost immediately halts, his eyes widening as a painfully obvious idea strikes him like lightning. Of course: their fort! It's stood abandoned for at least half a year, and may well not be there anymore… but then, thanks to the distance between them, Sophie wouldn't know that.

Richard hopes fleetingly that she hasn't just been wandering the halls for the past couple hours; it's notoriously difficult to find one's way through Barona Castle. "I'll go fetch her," he determines eventually, with a slight sigh. Richard supposes it's possible that Sophie never made it to the fort, or that she's gone somewhere else—but he decides to check there before he panics prematurely.

"Where is my daughter?" demands Asbel, taking a step forward, but Cheria tugs him back urgently. Richard knows very well that his friend is far more worried than angry, and that it's only concern which sharpens his voice, but that knowledge doesn't do much to defuse the situation.

"It's a _secret_ ," responds Richard as patiently as he can, and Asbel glares at him, but says nothing further and cannot meet his eyes. (In situations such as these, the King finds that it can be rather helpful to outrank his friends.)

Eventually, Asbel nods once, shortly, and Richard manages a small smile at his silent victory. "If you and Sophie aren't back in an hour…" He exchanges a long glance with Cheria; Malik looks faintly amused for mysterious, or more likely mischievous, reasons. "We'll look for you."

"That's reasonable," agrees Richard immediately, knowing it will never come to that. He can't imagine staying away from his own party for so long; mostly, it's because he's worried that at least one heart will be broken if he spends more than a few moments in Sophie's company.

Well, there's no way around it now…

"I'll see you all later," finishes Richard, somewhat awkwardly, and bows hastily; Asbel and Malik do the same with misgivings and mischief in their eyes, respectively, and Cheria curtsies.

And so the King finally sneaks away from his own ball, leaving his guests to waltz or worry the night away—and can't keep himself from wondering ruefully what exactly he's gotten himself into this time.

* * *

"Sophie?"

Richard says her name quietly, cautiously, as he pushes the storeroom door open—and his heart practically stops as he takes in the scene. Their fort is gone, as he suspected, but more alarmingly, Sophie lies half-curled on the exposed ground with her hair spread under her like a soft lavender blanket; her legs and feet, oddly, are bare. An intricate silver mask inlaid with gleaming peridot and emerald rests beside her, upside-down, as though been cast aside.

"Sophie!" exclaims Richard again, more urgently, the world turning cold around him as he rushes forward frantically. Is she breathing? His eyes won't focus; he can't tell. With only a slight hesitation, he sinks to one knee next to her and grasps her slim wrist, his heart beating in his throat.

Thank Gloandi: she's still soft and warm, her pulse strong and steady beneath his trembling fingers. Richard heaves a somewhat shaky sigh of relief and bows his head, cupping her hand in both of his instinctively.

Sophie frowns in her sleep, stirring slowly with a tiny, sleepy noise. Her brilliant violet eyes fly open a moment later and she gasps, shoving him away and leaping into a combat stance in one fluid motion. Richard is alarmed for a moment by the strength of her animosity, but before he can say anything, remembers abruptly that he still wears his ornate rose-and-gold mask.

He throws it off immediately and hears it crack against the ground, but he'd gladly break every mask he owns if it means Sophie will stop looking at him like that.

She only stares at him for a breathless moment, eyes wide with surprise, then ventures a tentative smile, putting her hands behind her back in a gesture of peace. And suddenly, she's just a lovely and vulnerable young lady again—standing there in a black velvet gown with long gloves of the same material, though they fade up to white at the hem.

Sophie's choice of outfit might seem more like funeral garb than a party dress if not for the belt hanging about her slender waist, sparkling with many-colored gemstones: a rainbow of tiny jewels hangs on fine strands of silver, like dew on a spiderweb, so that the overall effect is dazzling.

But her attire is no more mesmerizing than Sophie in and of herself; Richard has to remind himself to breathe. Helplessly, he drinks in her presence; he's starved himself of it for long enough that to be with her again is pure bliss—but at the same time, the constraints Richard imposes upon himself make his heart ache more every moment he forces himself to uphold them.

"Hello, Richard," she greets him quietly, almost shyly, and her cheeks seem a little bit rosier than usual in the faintly green-tinged light of the cryas-lamps. "It's been awhile." She does not mention the cause of those long months of separation.

"It has," agrees Richard slowly, his mouth dry: he clears his throat and gets cautiously to his feet, tugging his glove back on again. She hasn't grown, he notices, though he should hardly have expected her to: Sophie will always stand a little over a head shorter than him. "… _Far_ too long," he adds apologetically, his eyes lingering on her face.

Sophie only nods in agreement, swaying back and forth—plainly at a loss for what to do with herself. "I'm sorry I fell asleep," she bursts out earnestly, though she cannot meet Richard's guardedly curious gaze for long. "I didn't mean to. I just woke up too early this morning," she continues, almost defensively.

That makes two of them, then; he can barely sleep nowadays either, his duties weighing more and more heavily on his shoulders each night. "It's all right," Richard comforts her, shifting in place, and smiles at her as best he can, though his chest hurts. "We were just… worried about you, that's all," he continues, an unspoken question weighing down his voice.

Sophie hears it anyway, and answers. "There were a lot of people I didn't know this time," she explains, tracing deliberate circles on the ground with her foot. "Some of them kept looking at me like I'm different—and I could tell they were talking about me behind my back." She looks up at Richard, eyes wide, as if asking forgiveness. "I didn't like them, so… I came here instead."

"They're probably just jealous," responds Richard after a small pause, crossing his arms—reasoning with himself that reassuring Sophie of her perfect, normal humanity cannot do either of them much harm. (And yet, they both know it's a lie.)

"Jealous?" she asks disbelievingly, though her eyes sparkle at the compliment, and she seems to be trying not to smile. It wasn't all that long ago that even not-so-subtle praise would have missed her completely. Richard nods in affirmation and, at her undeniably pleased expression in return, no longer has to coax himself to smile.

"I need to let them know you're safe," he realizes aloud. "Unless you're ready to come back with me," he adds after a slight hesitation, oddly disappointed at the thought. Should Richard return to his party? Certainly; without a doubt. But does he really _want_ to return to his party? Ah; that's a much more interesting question…

"No," responds Sophie almost immediately, eyes widening, then ducks her head as if reprimanded. "Er, if that's okay," she amends, looking up at Richard searchingly, and he nods once, turning back towards the door.

He should just leave her there and go back to his people on his own—but now that he's with Sophie once more, it's much more difficult than he anticipated to leave again. Richard had thought that their reunion would be painful, full of regret, but he realizes too late that he has underestimated the strength of her attachment.

And, to add insult to injury, he was wrong about his own feelings, too: even after all this time, Sophie still has a tendency to make him forget his duty to the kingdom. Nay, worse: she makes him not care. And that familiar recklessness terrifies him.

But desire wins over duty anyway. "I'll be back soon," Richard promises her, glancing over his shoulder, "and then we can reconstruct the fort." Sophie's eyes light up with pure and genuine happiness; warmth floods Richard from top to toe, but he somehow convinces himself to wrench his gaze away from her.

As he departs to convey Sophie's safety to a servant, he swishes his viridescent cape behind him automatically. But as he strides briskly down his corridors, he takes note of the motion of the fabric in his peripheral vision, and an idea overtakes him…

* * *

"Here we are!"

The message has been delivered and, perhaps more importantly, they have now acquired fort-building materials. And by that Richard means almost the entire contents of his bed—every sheet and blanket and quite a few pillows… or at least the ones he's reasonably sure are saliva-free.

Sophie, meanwhile, is busy moving boxes into place, but turns and gasps in irrepressible and childlike delight as Richard staggers through the door. Swaying dangerously in place, he finally collapses exaggeratedly in a heap of bedding, the soft blankets cushioning his fall.

She rushes over, giggling and grasping his hand exuberantly with both of hers, the last six months utterly forgotten in that shining moment. But as soon as Richard and Sophie touch, they both freeze.

When was the last time she'd touched him? Richard's mind flies back through the months and alights on a chilly evening two years ago, when Asbel was trying to teach Sophie how to dance in preparation for Richard's birthday ball…

Richard realizes suddenly that his mouth is slightly open and closes it abruptly, feeling the color rise to his cheeks as she observes him curiously. "Thank you," he manages self-consciously. He half expects Sophie to confront him about his odd behavior—but she only nods once in acceptance and helps pull him to his feet, recognizing that the spell has broken.

"Now," announces Richard, changing the unmentioned subject with an attempted smile, "let's rebuild our fort!"

"We can have a ceiling this time!" agrees Sophie, eyeing the sheets, and—paying no attention to their formal attire nor the unseemliness of the entire situation—they set diligently to work.

The next several minutes are spent in largely silent cooperation as they transform the storeroom. Sophie starts by gingerly moving aside Richard's discarded mask and her own, as well as her thrown-aside shoes and stockings. Then, far more carefully than last time, they stack boxes one level higher than before in an effort to accommodate Richard's standing height. And after that, they have only to spread the king-size sheet over it by way of roof, both smiling and shivering as the linen billows and an artificial breeze washes over them.

Finally, after Richard moves the remaining pillows and blankets inside the crate borders, it's time to move into their little home. Richard bows and lets Sophie enter first, as is the gentlemanly thing to do; both of them glance around the inside almost hesitantly, as though it doesn't belong to them, before eventually settling down on the duvet—a few polite feet stretching between them.

"Is this what your bed is like, Richard?" asks an enthralled Sophie, fluffing up a couple pillows and leaning against the stone wall. He only nods briefly in response, thinking privately to himself that his bed may be comfortable, but it's beginning to feel very lonely. (He supposes, with a faint and ironic smile, that this is as close as he'll ever be able to get to sharing it with her.)

"My bed's much smaller than yours," continues Sophie, and Richard wishes she'd stop talking about it; she's only reminding him of the hidden desires he cannot possibly fulfill. "But then, I don't really _need_ a bigger one," she adds thoughtfully, and though she sounds perfectly calm, Richard can see her fingers tracing restless patterns on the surface of his comforter.

"Neither do I," he sighs in response, though he suspects their reasoning is quite different. She looks over at him with curiosity in her innocent eyes, but she says nothing, and Richard can think of no explanation she will understand.

There's a very long silence, during which his eyes catch on Sophie's belt, glittering in the dim light of the cryas as it filters through the silken sheet stretched above him. It is— _they are_ —truly beautiful, but it only agitates him to think about it, until finally he cannot look at her at all and fixes his gaze resolutely on the door.

Sophie, meanwhile, merely evaluates Richard's white-and-gold regalia intently, as if memorizing his appearance. Noticing her expression out the corner of his eye, he catches himself seriously wondering for the first time if he looks all right—reprimanding himself for not bothering to check in the mirror when he had stopped by his room.

"H-how have you fared lately?" he asks awkwardly, clearing his throat once more and trying desperately to think of things to say that won't hurt either of them. There are very few; he cannot comment on how much improved Sophie's handwriting is, as that would reveal that he received her letters. And he certainly cannot tell her how ladylike her stature has become without once more dwelling on her inherent, intangible, _inhuman_ loveliness.

"Well; thank you," responds Sophie, in the appropriate pattern, and gives him a somewhat relieved smile, as though happy that he is the first to speak. "Lhant is as beautiful as ever," she adds after a small pause; Richard is surprised at the lack of accusation in her voice—"and the sopherias are thriving."

"Even now?" asks Richard, surprised; they usually only bloom in spring and summer, and it's the middle of autumn. (He should know; his birthday falls on the exact halfway point.)

But Sophie nods anyway, seemingly determined. "Yes, someplace," she explains. "It's not autumn _everywhere_. Maybe the blossomgales have planted seeds where it's summer year-round."

Richard nods in tentative understanding. As idealistic as Sophie is, this time she's probably right; he's already found a couple sopherias blooming in his immaculate flowerbeds, and actually ordered them to be kept there, much to the exasperation of his fastidious gardeners.

"Have you found any hobbies besides looking after your flowers?" he asks, after another pause. He _thinks_ she likes dancing, but apparently not enough to partake of it tonight; perhaps she has outgrown it within the last while or so…?

Richard can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment at the idea. After all, dancing is one of his favorite pastimes, as long as nothing heavy weighs down his heart. Besides, one of his most prized memories is that of helping Sophie refine her waltz, so long ago—when they were still easy around one another, before all these complicated feelings got in the way.

Sophie, meanwhile, only tilts her head, frowning slightly. "I really like reading," she says eventually, with a kind of humble pride in her soft voice. "It used to make my head hurt from all the letters, but then Cheria taught me, so I got used to it." She pauses thoughtfully, tracing circles on her palm. "Then, it was just for my lessons. I didn't read because I really _wanted_ to, until… several months ago. But now, Asbel says I've read almost every book in Lhant."

They share a somewhat secretive smile, and there's somethingvery like affection in Sophie's eyes as they lock momentarily with his; Richard flushes and looks away, thankful for the dim light to conceal his automatic reaction. His composure is unraveling far more quickly than he expected…

He collects his thoughts with some difficulty, trying not to think of the implications of 'several months ago' and instead reflecting on her newest hobby. So they do still share some similarities, after all; for a long time, books were Richard's only friends. "That's great," he says honestly; she practically glows despite the mildness of his praise. "What kind of things do you like to read?"

Sophie hums faintly in contemplation, raising a dainty hand to her chin. "Books."

Richard stares at her for a moment; as he catches the humorous gleam in her eyes, he cannot suppress a laugh, and she giggles along with him. "Almost anything," she adds. "But I especially like history. It tells me what the world has been through, so it also tells me what I can expect in centuries to come."

He marvels at her casual tone; it wasn't more than a few years ago when the idea of outliving all her friends was extremely distressing to her. Now, it seems she's come to terms with her destiny, and there's a sort of startlingly serene exuberance about her—a readiness to face the future.

"The castle library is full of history books," says Richard, the words tumbling out before he can stop himself. Another dangerous idea, he reprimands himself, but the die has been cast now, and he may as well finish destroying himself. "Particularly Windor's history," he continues, with an effort.

"Can I see?" asks Sophie, her eyes wide and eager.

Richard tries to smile, but he's certain it seems more like a grimace. "Maybe later," he tells her, and his heart sinks at Sophie's clear disappointment as she casts her gaze at the floor—though she says nothing, whether to wheedle or whine.

"I could always," begins Richard after a pause, but stops short, once again bumping up against the same obstacle as before: is purposely prolonging the time he spends with Sophie a good idea? He can feel himself weakening by the moment, and if his resistance falters completely, then he'll only hurt them both…

"You could always… what?" asks Sophie, frowning.

Richard suppresses a sigh at her expression, knowing that his internal battle is once again lost. "I could bring some books _here_ ," he finishes, somewhat reluctantly; Sophie smiles at him, eyes shining, and he makes an involuntary noise in the back of his throat that might have been halfhearted annoyance or suppressed affection.

He gets to his feet, ready to make his escape and attempt to collect himself once more—but Sophie follows his lead, smoothing out her dress. "I'm coming with you this time," she says, extending her arm as if to grasp his cuff, but quickly snatches back her hand again. "So I can help carry them."

"R-right," responds Richard, unable to keep doubt from weighing down his voice. He still doesn't think this is a good idea, but he hardly has a choice now; he gestures towards the entrance to their fort with a slight bow. "Ladies first…"

* * *

They sit, too close, with an enormous tome of genealogy spread between them—one gigantic cover resting in each of their laps. Sophie examines each ancient page with fascinated delight in her every aspect, tracing the generations through the ages with a light and gentle touch.

Unconsciously, she presses against Richard's shoulder as she leans over to see the other page; her warmth chills him. He shivers, his breath catching automatically at their deliciously indecorous proximity, and Sophie looks over at him inquisitively. "Are you cold?" she asks concernedly, her finger resting over _Elric Windor_ —Richard's grandfather, first and last of his name.

"You might say that," he says evasively, clearing his throat. Sophie frowns at him, but says nothing, scrutinizing Elric's name and tracing the line across to _Averna Pelleas_ , then down to _Ferdinand Windor IV_ and… _Cedric_.

Richard grits his teeth to see his uncle's name; it may have been lined out in red for all the blood its bearer spilled, but the traitorous title is still plainly legible. Of all the horrifying things that Lambda influenced Richard to do, killing Cedric is the one he least regrets—and he reproaches himself harshly whenever he remembers that he still carries such a vicious sentiment.

But Sophie stirs him out of his suddenly savage thoughts with a gentle motion. "What was your mother like?" she asks, looking up at him and pointing to _Tatiana Lachlan_ —and he blinks, somewhat startled. However much they used to talk, she's never inquired much about his family before.

"Vibrant," sighs Richard eventually, misjudging the distance and leaning his head against the wall a little too hard. "She had long brown hair and dark brown eyes," he continues, trying not to wince as his skull conveys its displeasure in no uncertain terms. "And… a beautiful singing voice."

"Can _you_ sing?" wonders Sophie aloud, blinking up at him.

Richard can't help but chuckle at the very idea. "Hardly," he tells her, as if sharing a secret, and she smiles. "Mother always encouraged me to explore my musical talent, or rather, lack thereof—but then she'd always put me to shame, even though she didn't mean to." He pauses, recalling many sunny afternoons he thought he'd forgotten. "Eventually… I stopped trying."

"I sing to my flowers sometimes to help them grow strong," admits Sophie shyly. "But… I don't know if I'm any good at it."

At her words, Richard can't help but think that as long as she's not as tone-deaf as Cheria, then he's sure she's fine—but instead, he only says, "If the flowers like your voice, then it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks."

Sophie smiles at Richard's words, and a warm glow touches his heart at her clear happiness—but then she sobers again and glances up at him with somewhat apologetic curiosity in her eyes. "Your mother… she's gone?" she asks tentatively.

"I was ten when she passed away," explains Richard gently; his tears have long since dried. "My father was never the same after that. My parents had the good fortune to marry both for love and politics," he adds with a somewhat melancholy sigh as he remembers his own situation. "So he was very attached to her."

She nods in understanding, and her slender finger traces the line down to Richard's name and stops. There's a small silence, but then—"Will you get married someday, too?" bursts out Sophie, sounding as though she has been suppressing the question for a long time, and his heart almost stops for the second time that evening.

Richard inclines his head by way of affirmative, but the motion only serves to scatter his thoughts like a blossomgale. He never intended to speak of his conundrum with someone so intimately connected with it; what can he do now that the subject has been broached?

It's a long time before he can straighten himself out enough to speak, and then chooses his words very carefully. "Do you remember when Asbel's mother kept telling him to get married, and how President Paradine wanted Hubert to marry his daughter?" he asks eventually, looking up with an effort to meet Sophie's eyes.

"Yes?" she responds, tilting her head slightly, and it sounds like a question.

Richard purses his lips. "My people want me to get married too," he confesses. "It's been like that for years. But… I'm not just a lord; I'm the King." He runs a hand through his hair. "And that means I have no choice but to listen to my advisors. I must take a wife who will also make a good Queen."

"What does that mean?" asks Sophie, and there's a strange mixture of emotions in her voice as she sits forward intently: Richard narrows his eyes, but once again cannot pick out any specific feelings. He'd rather not try too hard, lest he give himself false hope—or dread—at the prospects of whether or not she feels the same.

"The Queen has to have my children," he explains hesitantly. "Natural-born—the court doesn't usually acknowledge adoption as legitimate. Oh, they'll probably make nice while I'm alive," he continues, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "But as soon as I'm gone, in all likelihood, there'll be trouble. My children versus distant relatives, all clamoring for the throne."

Sophie's eyes are wide; he remembers suddenly that if, by some misfortune, such a scenario comes to pass, she'll be there to see it, whether she is his Queen or no. His resolve is strengthened; he must not let it come to that—he _must_ marry someone else to ensure that the future remains peaceful, for Sophie's sake.

"Adoption… isn't legitimate?" asks Sophie desperately, resting an urgent hand on his forearm, and he flinches automatically at her unexpected touch. He opens his mouth, scrambling futilely for reassuring words and reprimanding himself for having spoken so clumsily; her brow contracts in a frown.

"Are you all right?" she asks anxiously, examining his face closely, and he finds himself unable to look at her. He needs to get out of here, before he does something he's afraid he won't regret. "You're acting like…" She says nothing, but he can practically hear her unspoken words. _You're acting like Lambda again_.

His suspicion is confirmed when, after another several seconds of silence, she brings her hands up to his face and turns it towards her, violet eyes concentrating intently on his left iris. He inhales sharply and holds his breath at her warm velvet touch, trying not to close his eyes—struggling bitterly against the instinct to relax into the sensation.

Sophie's eyes flick between his, becoming more and more confused and concerned as she notices no difference in color, before she finally gives up and drops her hands and gaze to her lap, saying nothing. She barely breathes, focusing on her fingertips, and Richard can all too easily imagine that her downcast eyes are filled with troubled tears.

His forcibly hardened heart softens reflexively. "Don't worry," he tells her, as gently as he can, and she looks up at him again searchingly. "It's different for you; you're not going to inherit any titles, like my children will—so it's a moot point." He pauses, seeing Sophie's eyes widen in newfound hope.

"And besides," he adds, somewhat more hesitantly, "the court tends to be more lenient with lower ranks anyway." He does not— _cannot_ —tell her that the court's peculiar prejudice lessens the chances of anyone considering her noble enough to marry the King. As of right now, it's irrelevant, and would only be painful to explain.

Sophie lets out a long and somewhat shaky breath, and gives a small smile out of relief. "Thank you, Richard," she sighs, softly and sincerely, and gratefulness shimmers in her eyes. He moistens his lips automatically, an impulse to _kiss her_ crossing his mind, but he swallows it and only glances away once more.

Someone so good and gentle as Sophie Lhant doesn't deserve to feel so insecure, thinks Richard frustratedly, but there's only so much he can do about it without tempting fate. _She's happiest when people let her know they care,_ the memory of Pascal whispers encouragingly in his head, startling him. _Even if that means feeling a little squished sometimes…_

But as soon as he opens his mouth to try to voice in some small way his unbearable, inarticulate thoughts, Sophie speaks—suddenly, swiftly, as if afraid she won't get the chance to say everything she wants.

"I missed you," she finally admits, and each word sends three bolts of lightning into his heart in quick succession—but those are nothing compared to the alarm her next, long-dreaded question causes: "Why did you stop visiting?"

From the hurt in her eyes and voice, Richard understands that whatever explanation he offers will be inadequate. He has wounded Sophie far more deeply than he had anticipated—enough so that the usual glow in her gaze has been replaced with grief as she asks the question. Richard can't decide whether he's more elated or distressed to discover that her feelings are as unchanged as his.

He reflects that he's in hasty retreat by now, attempting more to save himself than to hold the line as he had initially planned. But by no means does Sophie deserve to be ignored; how can he possibly apologize, while still keeping a prudent distance?

A transparent lie wells up in Richard's mouth, the only defense he has against the truth, and the only hope he has of escaping the situation in (approximately) one piece. _'I've been so involved with my responsibilities as King, I haven't been able to find the time.'_ Well, that's at least partially correct; perhaps that's less of a falsehood than some other excuses, but no alibi will be enough to grant him pardon.

Richard opens his mouth, _this_ close to spitting out the sentence that might unjustly absolve him of fault—but as he takes in her wide-eyed anxiety, intermingled with clearly visible self-blame, something deep inside him splinters: it might be his heart, or his resolve, or both.

He swallows, trying in vain to soften the shards, and the sentence that he murmurs instead—barely audible over the pounding of his heart—are the irrefutable truth, the answer to her question, and the words that might bring his country down: "Because I love you."

Richard bends his knees, letting the book fall between them, separating them; the weight of his lineage lifts off his lap and settles heavily back into his heart. _See_ , he tells himself savagely, burying his face in his knees and squeezing his eyes shut as though trying to block out a nightmare. It hasn't even been an hour, and he's already cracked and broken under a simple question—pressure exacerbated by the strain of enduring Sophie's gentle presence.

"Why…" Sophie begins, blinking in astonishment before cutting herself off and shaking her head confusedly. Richard knows exactly what she's asking: why would that keep him away from her? Why didn't he say anything before? Why tell her so now?

Richard exhales a long sigh, hugging his knees more tightly still. He's ruined everything with four little words; now that he's rendered pointless the struggle of enduring the past six months alone, what will become of his country? Of his heart? Of _Sophie_?

He shakes his head to draw his attention back to the present. Now that Richard has given Sophie part of the truth, she has a right to all of it. (Technically speaking, she's _always_ had that entitlement; he's just been too blind to see.) And, as much as marrying the right lady is his duty, he has an even more important obligation to explain himself.

Besides, he thinks, trying to rally his courage—he's a terrible liar anyway.

"I tried to keep my distance because I didn't want to hurt either of us," explains Richard haltingly, looking up again, and the bitter words burn his throat like bile as he forces them out. "I _have_ to marry someone else; the farther apart we are, the easier it will be… for both of us." He swallows convulsively. "But, if I had my way, I would—"

His voice breaks, and he doesn't have the strength to finish the sentence: doubt still weighs down the words. Even if Richard were able to ignore the court's demands—as he has considered doing more than once—he would still refuse to woo Sophie, out of fear that the happiness they might find together would not be enough to alleviate the pain their union could cause.

A lesser man might have cast aside doubt and acted on behalf of happiness. Richard wishes more than anything that he were a lesser man.

"But I'm going to stay like this… forever," murmurs Sophie after a pause, evidently guessing his thinking as she glances up at him sideways with solemn eyes. There's something very heavy in her ordinarily light voice; it might be sorrow. "And you won't."

"I know," says Richard, bowing his head defeatedly, leaning his forehead once more against his knees. "And I couldn't possibly ask you to share my life like that—not when it will end so soon for you."

Sophie moves aside the forgotten book and turns her body to face him, searching his face. "And if I let you go, what then?" she asks insistently. "If I stay out of your life, will it hurt any less for either of us when it ends?"

Richard frowns, blinks, and—with an effort—looks up. "Wh-what?"

She brings her folded hands up to the middle of her chest, bowing her head and closing her eyes as if in prayer. "Cheria told me something a few years ago," she explains. "When I was still worried about the future." Taking a deep breath, Sophie continues, " _It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all_."

Richard stares at her, but can say nothing. He's heard that, of course, and it's even crossed his mind with regard to this very situation—but on her lips, the proverb is given new meaning. _She still loves him_. That realization alone, however obvious, is almost enough to make him reconsider. (Almost.)

She reaches out and takes his hand with both of hers, playing with his fingers, and Richard can feel himself flushing at her soft touch. "Please, Richard," she implores quietly, and regret clenches his heart. "Don't do this to us."

"Sophie…" sighs Richard, but shakes his head frustratedly in an eleventh-hour effort to break the trance of acceptance settling upon him with every motion of her fingers. "You've only really lived for three years," he continues reluctantly. "I don't think it's possible for you to fully understand what you're—"

"I'm not a child anymore!" exclaims Sophie passionately, looking him full in the face with a fierce light in her eyes, and his eyes widen at the force of her reply. "I know my own fate, and I _know_ what I want." She brings Richard's hand slowly up to spread over her living heart, resting her palms atop his, and his eyes widen.

Through the soft layers of his suede gloves and her velvet dress, he can feel Sophie's pulse, quick and strong and _human_. Richard curls his fingers over her chest, bowing his head in careful thought. Every beat beneath his hand shakes his resolve; every shallow breath she takes reminds him that his own are numbered. How would he rather spend them; with Sophie, or without?

He lets out a long and lingering sigh, weakening. They love one another, and that's all that ought to matter; if her immortality is not of concern to her, then he certainly shouldn't let it concern him.

Except… "Even if I love you, and even if my aging means nothing," says Richard cautiously, "there are other complications." Trivial in comparison, he adds to himself; but problems nonetheless.

"What do you mean?" asks Sophie, frowning, and releases his hand: Richard withdraws it half-reluctantly.

"The court likely won't approve the match in the first place," he says carefully. "Since you're adopted. And even if they do, by some miracle, I'm not certain…" He trails off, frantically trying to find an alternative way of saying it. "The Queen is bound by duty to carry on my bloodline," he finishes eventually, unable to meet Sophie's inquisitive eyes.

She bites her lip, evidently thinking hard. "The Little Queen," she says tentatively. "She made me grow, and gave me her tears. I don't know for sure that she didn't change… anything else." Desperate hope shines in her eyes, and Richard blinks, weighing his options.

"We can't risk it," he decides, fixing his gaze on the floor. "If you can't…"

"I understand," whispers Sophie, but—after a small and silent pause—looks up at him again with newfound and fervent determination. "No," she amends, clenching her fists in her lap. "I don't. You won't need heirs while I'm still alive!"

Richard laughs humorlessly. "And you'll just take on the duties of both King and Queen, and rule on your own forever?" he asks pointedly, and she looks crestfallen. "What about seeing the world?" he adds, forcing himself to continue; it's important that she fully understand. "What about your oath to Asbel, to see his dream fulfilled?"

"Then Asbel's children can be your heirs!" flashes Sophie. "They'll be my brothers and sisters!"

"In name, but not in blood," counters Richard, rising, and Sophie jumps to her feet as well, looking angry. "It's not my decision," he continues, as gently as possible, and rests his hands on her shoulders in an effort to steady her. "If I could have my way, none of this would matter."

"None of this _does_ matter," mutters Sophie, her voice resentful as she looks up at him. "What will the court do if you decide to marry me anyway—push you off the throne?"

"…No," says Richard, withdrawing his hands and walking out of their suddenly stuffy fort into open air; Sophie strides after him. "They don't have the authority to do that. But I'll lose favor with a lot of them—and when I'm gone, there will almost certainly be trouble because of it."

"You'll lose favor no matter _who_ you marry," points out Sophie obstinately, putting her hands on her hips and bending slightly forward in a distinctly Cheria-esque way; the corner of Richard's mouth twitches at the unconscious imitation. "All of them want you to pick their daughters, so it's impossible for you to please everyone, right?" she continues, and he realizes with a peculiar urge to laugh that she's absolutely correct.

"It's true," he sighs, wearier and wearier of delaying his own happiness; perhaps he can make this work after all. They'll have plenty of time to discuss matters with the court, and everything seems a little more possible with Sophie at his side. He smiles tentatively (Sophie looks taken aback) and then, he finally, _finally_ surrenders: "And I'd rather please you, anyway."

"So… will you marry me?" asks Sophie, wide-eyed, and tilts her head.

Richard laughs gently, and she beams at him. "Typically, it's the man who asks that question," he says, and realizes with a jolt that this is his cue. Even though he doesn't have a ring, it's still probably expected of him to—

"What are you doing?" asks Sophie curiously, as Richard sinks to one knee.

He holds a finger to his lips, hushing her, then takes her hand in his; she twitches, as though to instinctively pull away, but then relaxes again. "Sophie Lhant," says Richard, his voice shaking slightly; he may already know she'll accept, but that doesn't stop his heart from pounding.

"Even though I hurt you so badly," he continues, looking into her surprised eyes with some difficulty, "and even though I fought so hard to push you away—I beg of you: will you marry me?"

Sophie initially does not react, but then closes her eyes briefly with a smile and falls to her knees as well, clasping Richard's hands with both of hers. She gazes into his eyes with such radiant joy that his eyes well up suddenly, and he blinks the happy tears back.

" _Yes_ ," smiles Sophie, and embraces Richard; the scent of lilacs washes over him. As she rests her head gently against his, their chests press together, two hearts beating as one. It's the closest they've ever been; after having maintained such a great distance for so long, her sudden proximity is intoxicating.

Richard can only smile and run his trembling fingers through her hair, a tear or two escaping despite his best efforts; he holds his breath in an effort to keep from breaking down completely. Sophie leans back, apparently noticing, and wipes them both tenderly away with a gloved thumb.

"Are you sad?" she asks concernedly.

Richard shakes his head, giving her a somewhat watery smile. "Happier than I've ever been in my life," he tells her honestly. "Just… overcome." He pauses as he looks into her eyes, brimful of tearless delight. "Thank you so much, Sophie," he murmurs sincerely. For everything—for her infinite patience, for her ability to counter his despair with limitless hope.

She only shakes her head and gives him a warm smile, getting to her feet and offering him a hand; Richard takes it, but gets to his feet largely due to his own limited strength. Sophie does not let go of his hands, so—after ensuring that his legs can hold him—he smiles wickedly and spins her around, relishing her gleeful giggle.

As they come to a halt again, Sophie laughs breathlessly, eyes sparkling, and holds both his arms to keep herself steady as she regains her balance. Gazing down at his betrothed and feeling that all is right with the world, Richard finally inclines his head and draws her sweet mouth up to his on an impulse—closing the distance between them once and for all with a swift and tender kiss.

He pulls away from her quickly, if reluctantly, all too aware of the impropriety of the situation. But Sophie only looks up at him with eyes wide with affection, the darkened tips of her long lavender hair skimming the ground, and whispers, "I'll watch over you forever."

He barely has time to think that he's never heard a sound more beautiful than those words on her lips before Sophie stands on her tiptoes to bridge the gap once more herself.


End file.
